A Matter of Execution
by Ellynne
Summary: Rumple has learned what happened to his son in Rhinebeck, New York in 1994. He's also learned the name of the Grimm responsible, Kelly Burkhardt. It's time to bring the players together and settle matters, once and for all.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** These stories are set in an AU where the Silvertons acted as Nick's unofficial foster parents when Aunt Marie had to fight Wesen out of town and keep the people who'd killed his parents from finding Nick. Nick and Juliette have a brother-sister relationship. When I started work on my Grimm/Once stories, Grimm was in its second season. It was unclear where Nick and Juliette were going to go. I always pictured them more as friends than as a romantic couple for these stories, although that didn't become important till now.

I do not own Once Upon a Time or Grimm

X

The email subject was, "Rhinebeck 94." Kelly Burkhardt opened it and read, "You killed my son. I've found yours."

X

 _The woman had dark, curling hair. She reminded the boy of Mama, her face twisted into fury as it all too often was when she yelled at Papa._

 _But, this wasn't Mama. This was another woman, a stranger the boy had never met. They were standing on a road of stone. It was night, but strange lights glowed from lamps along the street, letting the boy see the bodies and the blood. The boy was crouched against the ground, but she seized him by the hair, hauling him up. "You did this!" she said. "You killed them!"_

" _Papa. . . !" The boy looked around, trying to spot his father. But, he wasn't there. Papa had let him go. Wherever The boy was, he was alone with this madwoman._

" _Your father can't help you, Wesen," the woman said. She dragged him over to the bodies. Two, a man and a woman, were headless. The third, a child a little younger than the boy, stared blankly at the night sky. "But, you can help me," she said. "We're going to fix this."_

 _Then, she pulled out a knife and brought it down on the boy's chest._

X

It was never a good sign when Nick's day started out with the dream.

It hadn't started after his parents died—or he didn't _think_ it had. He'd had a lot of nightmares after that but he'd woken up unable to remember any of them. The dream had started when he was fourteen, not long after Aunt Marie left him with the Silvertons for the first time.

As an adult, it made sense to Nick. He'd been through a lot of upheavals in the past couple years since his parents were killed. Aunt Marie had been the one constant. When she was gone, the dream started. Night after night, the same one.

He'd never told the Silvertons, not even Juliette. Back then, it was because he'd grown up knowing there were some things you didn't discuss outside of family-not even with the foster family who'd practically raised you. Now, as a grown man, keeping quiet was just a habit. What would he tell someone like Juliette, anyway? _There's a nightmare that's been bothering me half my life that I never mentioned to you before for no reason. And, now, I'm talking about it. For no reason._

Besides, it was just a dream. He'd been a kid uprooted from the one familiar thing he had left, so he had nightmares about the last time he'd lost everything. Pure and simple.

But, one thing Nick had learned was that, when he had the dream, he was almost always in for a bad day.

X

Another email with the same heading. Kelly opened it. There was a picture, a familiar one. It was a Japanese woodcut showing a samurai being attacked by a woman turning into a spider. Beneath it, it said, "Is this what gave you the idea?"

X

When Nick got to work, he saw the first sign of trouble, a woman waiting nervously at his desk. That wasn't unusual in the life of a police detective. Criminals, witnesses, victims, all of them had their reasons to look nervous. What was unusual was seeing a woman he'd had dead to rights in a murder investigation dropping in on him.

"Ms. Marcinko, you wanted to see me?" The words were polite—barely—but Nick fixed his eyes coldly on her and did everything he could to let her hear the icy fury he felt. Lena Marcinko had killed eight men that Nick knew of and had gotten away with it.

It must have worked. Her control slipped and she woged under his glare. Though no one human saw it, her face shifted, becoming a cross between a woman's and a spider's. She flinched as she met Nick's eyes. She was seeing the darkness Wesen saw when they looked at a Grimm. His friends, Rosalee and Monroe, had described it as an infinite darkness reflecting their own nature back at them.

"I was told to give you this," Lena said, putting a book down on Nick's desk, _Tales from Japan._ Her fingers twitched nervously over the cover. "And to tell you the Wesen version of one of the stories in it."

"Told?"

"By my lawyer."

"Oh, right," Nick said. "The guy who got you off for being a serial killer. Evil twin, wasn't that it? And the judge actually bought that story."

"I never wanted to hurt anyone," Lena said, looking away.

"But, you still killed eight men. Or did you get number nine? Is that why you're looking so much better? Or did you have to start over from the beginning and murder three more for the face lift? Is that what you do for your lawyer? Kill people?"

"I haven't—I didn't—" Lena woged again. She stopped, took a deep breath, becoming human. "My family's going to be moving soon," she told him. "My husband's been offered a job in a town called Storybrooke. You won't have to worry about us in your jurisdiction. But, before we go, I was told to give you this book and—and tell you one of the stories in it.

"It's a story of the first Spinnetod. Did you know that not all Wesen are born that way?"

"I'd heard," Nick said cautiously. There'd been a really disturbing story in the family records about what happened when a Hexenbeist seduced one of his distant relatives a couple centuries ago. Things like that were enough to make him think about joining a monastery. Talking to a Spinnetod, a type of Wesen whose females were driven to commit murder every few years and who usually killed and ate any man they slept with didn't help (he had to give Lena points on that one, she hadn't eaten her husband).

Lena opened the book and showed him what looked like a woodcut picture of a samurai being attacked by a woman in a kimono turning into a giant spider. "The oldest story of a Spinnetod comes from Japan," Lena said. "This is a legend, you understand, a myth. Most new-made Wesen don't survive. Some go mad before they learn to hide what they are. Our stories get confused very quickly.

"According to this one, a Shinto priest had a beautiful daughter, his only child. There was a fire, and she was badly injured, dying. The flames had burnt her face terribly. The priest used all his healing arts to try and save her. But, though she did not die, she did not get better.

"Now, one day, as the priest was tending her, he saw a poisonous spider crawling towards her. He tried to kill it, but the spider escaped him, crawling back into a small crack in the floorboards. But, not before he managed to strike off two of its legs. Days passed, and he saw the spider crawl out of the same crack in the floor. Yet, the spider had all its legs. Though they were short and stunted, the two it had lost had begun to grow back.

"He called on the god of the shrine and begged it to give his daughter the same gift it had given the lowly spider, that she might heal and be well. As he prayed, the spider crawled onto his daughter till it rested above her heart. The priest, sensing that either his prayer would be answered or that the god meant to grant her a swift death, watched, not daring to breathe.

"The spider sank into his daughter's flesh, vanishing from sight. Overnight, the girl healed, her former beauty restored." Lena stopped.

"Let me guess," Nick said. "There were problems."

Lena nodded. "Travelers came to the shrine two nights running. Both left early, before the priest was awake. Or so his daughter told him. On the third night, another traveler came. The priest only pretended to eat and drink what his daughter served him for the evening meal. She had drugged it. When she thought he was asleep, he saw her entering the guest's room. The priest burst in on them just as his daughter was transforming into a monster, a—a _hideous_ spider." Lena's fingers curled as she said _hideous_. Her fingers woged into a spider's pincers. She went on. "The priest cursed her but, though he was able to drive her out of the shrine, he was unable to kill her.

"The girl paused as she ran out the gate. Turning back, she said to him, 'I am what you have made me, Father. You were the one who chose to give me a spider's heart.' Then, she ran away, never to be seen again. But, there were rumors of a beautiful woman who haunted the roadsides and would fall upon the traveler foolish enough to be out alone at night.

"That's the story," Lena said. "You can read it for yourself, but it's pretty much the way my mother told it to me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be going."

"You expect me to just let you go?"

"You won't stop me from leaving," Lena said. She tried—and failed—to sound confident. "Or are you going to kill me in front of a station full of police? That would be quite the show. Don't worry. Once I'm gone, I'm gone. You won't need to worry about me again."

"I wasn't planning on worrying about you, just your victims."

"I . . . don't think there will be any more," Lena said. "You—you don't need to concern yourself. If you have any questions about the book or anything else, contact my lawyer. He said to give you this." Lena handed him a business card. It was glossy black with gold lettering. Unlike most business cards, there was nothing more than a name and a number, no profession, address, or even an email. But, the name was enough to grab Nick's attention: Mr. Gold.

The same name as the lawyer Monroe and Bud said had shown up out of nowhere to help Monroe when the Wesenrein had meant to kill him.

X

Kelly opened a third email. There was a picture of Nick and Juliette's house. The caption read, "Going over to meet the neighbors. Care to join us?" There was a date and a time.

X

The man in Juliette's garden didn't look threatening. Juliette, who had just gotten home from work, saw him standing by a tree. He looked frazzled despite his Armani suit. He was leaning on a cane with one hand and trying to lure down the cat stuck up in the branches with the other, offering it a small bit of ham.

It was a beautiful cat, Juliette thought, with the black silk fur and bright yellow eyes of a Bombay black. The cats looked like small panthers, although they were really quite friendly. Many even got along with dogs. Their primary purpose in life was to find a lap to curl up on.

Juliette stepped out the back porch and walked over. "Problem?" she asked.

The man looked at her anxiously. Juliette had guessed him to be in his forties but something in his soft, brown eyes made her thing she was wrong. He must be much older. "I'm sorry. Is this your yard?" he said. He had Scottish brogue. "I just moved in next door. I didn't think there was anyone home."

"I just got here," Juliette said. "Is that your cat?"

"A friend's," the man said ruefully. "I'm supposed to be watching her."

"Try leaving the ham on the ground," Juliette suggested. "Then, let's step back. The cat's probably scared. If we give her some space and a reason to come down, she might do it on her own."

The man dutifully dropped the ham and backed away, Juliette walking beside him. The cat peered over, momentarily interested in the ham. Then, she pulled back, cowering on the branch.

"I don't think it's working," the man said.

"Let me try this." Juliette reached into her pocket where she had a laser pointer from work. She turned it on, aiming the red dot onto the branch just in front of the cat. The cat swatted at it. Juliette pulled the light just out of reach, as if it were a piece of string she was teasing the animal with. She did that a few times till the cat got up and followed the light. Carefully, darting the red dot back and forth, pulling it just out of reach every time the cat almost "caught" it, she led it to the trunk.

Getting the cat down the trunk was a bit trickier. The cat froze up part way, realizing what she was doing. But, Juliette, brought the red dot right under her nose, and the cat went after it. It took some more work, but Juliette finally led her down. She moved the dot just a bit further, settling it on the ham, switching the light off as the cat triumphantly dug in her claws into her prize and ate it up.

Her meal finished, the cat noticed the man and trotted over, rubbing herself against his legs. He leaned down, scratching her behind the ears and beneath the jaw. The cat jumped up into his arm, purring contentedly.

"She seems very fond of you," Juliette said, reaching over and petting her. "What's her name?"

"Cinder," the man said. "And mine's Mr. Gold, Ms. . . ?"

"Silverton," Juliette said. "Juliette Silverton."

"What a lovely name. How did you learn to lure cats down trees like that?"

"I'm a vet," Juliette said. He seemed like a nice man, Juliette thought, though there was something a little shy and awkward about him. "I just got home from work. Would you like to come in and join me for a cup of tea?"

"Thank you," Mr. Gold said. He looked at the open door behind Juliette and smiled. There was a flash of something triumphant in his eyes. For just a moment, he reminded Juliette of the way the cat had looked when she brought her fangs down on the piece of meat, a victorious predator who had caught his prey. Then, he turned the smile on Juliette, and she wondered what was wrong with her. His brown eyes, meeting hers, were gentle and soft. "I would enjoy that very much."

X

The last message was a text. "The party's started. Hurry. It won't be the same without you."


	2. The Watch of Uncle Einar

Henry was wearing the glasses Mr. Gold had given him. They were large, round, plastic lenses, and he thought they made him look like a little kid dressing up as Harry Potter. But, they let him see the Wesen for what they were as he and Emma walked down the streets of Portland. His mom didn't seem to notice but, then, she didn't have glasses. Mr. Gold had told him not to worry. His mom's magic had begun waking up in Storybrooke, even if she didn't do spells yet. She'd see a Wesen if one woged in front of her.

He liked _The Spice Shop_ as soon as they stepped into it. Even though all it had were bottles and boxes of leaves and things, it felt like Mr. Gold's shop. He liked the smell of it, too. It reminded him of the forest in autumn back home, when there weren't any flowers but you could smell the sharp scent of pine and lying over the fuller smell of mouldering leaves, damp earth, and frost. His eyes went wide as he read some of the labels. Was that _really_ eye of newt? And dried boomslang skin?

He wondered what the lady behind the counter would say if he showed her one of his other mom's apples?

Except, she wasn't a lady. Henry saw her face—her person face—but, over that, he saw another one. Her face was a mix of white fur framed with red, a black, dog-like nose in the center. Henry tried to remember the book Mr. Gold had given him. A _Fuchsbau,_ right? Which was a funny sounding name—it sounded like a bad word—but Henry supposed the lady wouldn't be upset if he called her that except he wasn't supposed to know that's what she was. Instead, he pointed out the boomslang skin to Emma.

"We're not getting souvenirs," Emma said. "Just what's on the list." She handed the lady at the counter the list Mr. Gold had written out. He wrote in cursive, letters that looked like they were out of some of his other mom's best spell books (which made sense. Mom didn't say, but Henry thought Mr. Gold had written a lot of them). Henry wondered if the lady could read cursive—they taught it in Storybrooke, but Henry knew some schools only made kids learn keyboarding these days (Sydney Glass had mentioned it five times in three different articles when he complained about "big city corruption" Emma would bring to Storybrooke when she became sheriff).

But, the lady looked it over and said ambergris was a controlled substance. Henry knew that. Ambergris came from whales' stomachs. A lot of it was found floating in the sea—the books Henry read hadn't said if it was covered with whale poop when people found it, but it seemed like a good bet—but whalers used to cut it out of the whales they caught.

Emma pulled out lots of papers Mr. Gold had given her. The lady looked them over and asked Emma for an ID. It was funny to think of someone checking licenses and running a background check for stuff for magic potions.

"Oh, one more thing," Emma said, looking uncomfortable, even though this was the real reason they came here. "I'm looking for a man named, uh, Monroe? There's a letter I was supposed to give him."

The lady went still. It was the same kind of really still people did when his other mom got that hard note in her voice—or the really, really pleasant note that was even scarier. It was always followed by a lot of, "Of course, Madam Mayor," and "Right away, Madam Mayor," while people scrambled to get away from her. But, this lady didn't do that. She looked at Emma as if she were trying decide if she _should_ do that, but she wasn't actually acting scared. Yet.

"Is there a problem?" She might not be scared, but Henry could hear how hard she was trying to not sound worried.

"Uh, I don't know. I don't think so. It's, uh. . . ." But, explaining what it meant that a letter was from Mr. Gold wasn't easy to do to anyone who hadn't lived in Storybrooke.

But, Emma didn't have to because, right then, a man came out from the back. Henry started and took a step back, although he didn't think anyone noticed. They were all busy looking at each other. The man was—he was—well, he was what Henry had thought Ruby was the first time his grandfather explained she was a werewolf. He had red eyes and sharp teeth and features that were sharper and harder than a human person's were.

But, he also was a not-scary-at-all man with a beard and a plaid shirt who looked like the sort of person his grandfather was talking about when he mentioned farmers and shepherds from the village where he grew up. Only, his person eyes glinted red for just a moment when he looked at Emma (who either didn't notice or was even better than Henry realized at looking like nothing surprised her anymore). "You wanted me?"

"You're Monroe?" When he nodded, Emma handed him the letter. "Here. I was told to give this to you."

Henry saw the lady look at the letter and then at the shopping list and the papers Emma had given her. He guessed she saw it was the same handwriting. Monroe turned it over, about to open it, when he stopped. "Gold?" he said. "You got this from _Gold?_ "

That got Henry's attention. "You know Mr. Gold?"

"Yeah, he, uh, he, uh. . . ."

"Yeah, that's him," Henry said.

"What did he do to you?" Emma asked.

The lady looked at her sharply. "He helped him."

Emma snorted. "Right. Of course, he did. And what did he charge?"

"He asked me to pass on a message. Do you, uh, do you know him well? Because, I kind of wondered . . . does he have anything against Nick Burkhardt?"

"Who?"

"Read the letter," the lady said. "See what it says."

"Oh. Right." The werewolf man looked at the letter like he thought it would bite (Henry wondered if it would. He thought his mom could fix whatever Mr. Gold did. Probably. But, you never knew.

Monroe opened the letter he read it and frowned. For a second, the nice looking man with the beard vanished, and there was just the werewolf man standing there. Emma started back.

"It's OK, Mom," Henry said. "He's a Blutbad. I read about them."

The lady gave Henry a bemused look. "You woge already? You're awfully young." Then, she smiled and the nice lady vanished the same way the man had. There was just the furry, dog-nosed face. "I'm a Fuchsbau. What are you?"

"We're not Wesen," Henry said. "Back where we come from—well, where my Mom comes from, I was born here—some people can see things. And hear them. Mom knows if people are lying."

"Henry. . . ."

"But, that's not why Mr. Gold sent us," Henry added. "He just wanted us to give you the letter and pick up the stuff he wanted. None of the stores in our town carry it and Mr. Gold said he'd just as soon not chase down whales on his own."

"Uh, yeah, I can understand that," Monroe said. He looked like he meant it, too, even if he was still staring at them. Henry supposed, when you were some kind of werewolf,

His mom looked like she was gritting her teeth. "Thanks, Henry."

Henry didn't need his mom's talent to know she didn't really mean it, but he smiled anyway. "Anytime, Mom. So, what did the letter say?"

"He asked me to get a watch," Monroe said. "I fix clocks and watches for a living." He looked at the letter again. "How well do you know Gold?"

Emma shrugged. "I don't know if anyone really _knows_ Gold—"

"Belle does," Henry chimed in.

Emma shot him a look. _Not now._ Monroe and the lady didn't ask about Belle. Emma went on, "—but I've known him a while. What do you need to know?"

"He wants me to bring my Great-Uncle Einar's watch. How does he know about my Great-Uncle Einar's watch? Or about—" Monroe looked down at the letter, "—Neal Cassidy? How did—"

"Wait, what?" Emma said. "Neal Cassidy? How—?" She started to reach for the paper, ready to snatch it away from Monroe. Then, she stopped herself. "What does he say about Neal Cassidy?"

Monroe handed her the letter. Henry leaned over, standing on tiptoe, to read along.

 _Dear Sir,_

 _Hopefully, this letter finds you in better circumstances than our last meeting. All accounts were settled between us with your prompt fulfillment of the duties stipulated and no further obligation remains on your part concerning that matter. However, it is my understanding that you have a watch which once belonged to your late uncle, Einar, and which was once in the possession of one Neal Cassidy. I believe it would benefit you both if, after you have finished this letter, you were to take that watch to the house of your friend, Nick Burkhardt._

 _Once again, I wish to assure you that you are under no obligation to do so. All I can offer you is my continued good will._

 _With best wishes for your continued well-being,_

 _Mr. Gold_

"I'm going to kill him," Emma said.


	3. A Cup of Truth and Tea

Juliette poured tea while Mr. Gold told her a little about himself. He was "mostly" retired, he told her. "I bought the house to be closer to my son—he lives in Portland—but I still run a small store in Storybrooke, a little town up north," he told her. "I just sell odds and ends, really, those small things people need from time to time. But, it's right on Main Street, a good location if you like to watch people or see what's going on in town." He smiled shyly. Juliette could imagine him like a little, hopeful child, looking out at the people going by but being too timid to actually talk to them. He'd been so embarrassed just to be caught trying to lure a cat down from her tree.

Juliette told him a bit about her family and how she decided to become a vet. She asked him about Cinder, who was curled up in Gold's lap, purring contentedly. "How did you get talked into watching her when you're still moving in?" He seemed such a quiet, unsure man, it was easy to imagine someone taking unfair advantage of him.

"There wasn't exactly a discussion," Gold said ruefully. "Cinder belongs to a—a lady friend of mine." _Lady friend?_ Were there people who still said that? It was an odd, old fashioned term, but he still reddened as said it. Apparently, this was risqué language for him. He went on, "But, the cat seems to have an affection for me. She snuck into my car while I wasn't looking. I found her asleep in the back when I arrived." He scratched the cat's ears. She purred ecstatically. "I called Belle—my lady friend. She said she was coming down to check on me this weekend when she gets off work—she's the town librarian—and she'll come get her then."

Juliette imagined a grandmotherly woman with glasses on a chain, graying hair tucked in a bun, slightly scuffed Oxfords, sagging nylons, and a woolly sweater. She wondered if Belle was short for something, probably a name that sounded like it was from a stuffy, Victorian novel, something a maiden aunt and cat lady would have, Clarabelle or Mirabelle, or something like that. "You should bring her over," Juliette said. "Nick and I were having friends over Saturday night. You should join us."

"I wouldn't like to impose," Gold said.

"It's no problem," Juliette said. "Monroe and Rosalee would love to meet you."

"Monroe . . . Monroe. . . ." Gold said. "I remember that name. Oh, yes, it was a legal case. That matter with the Wesenrein. A Blutbad, isn't he? And his wife, Rosalee. Lovely young lady, so I've heard. A Fuchsbau, I believe?" He took a sip of tea.

Juliette froze, her cup halfway to her mouth. Nothing had changed. He was still smiling quietly and benignly, but he didn't seem nearly so harmless. "You're Wesen."

Again, that self-effacing smile. "No, I'm afraid not. I know the term can be used a bit broadly, but the . . . condition I have is quite different." He drank some more tea.

Juliette put her own cup down, trying to measure how far it was to the drawer with the gun. "Why are you here?" She thought of all the people who had tried to kill Nick—who had tried to kill her—and wondered why he had come or who had sent him.

"Because you invited me in." He smiled, his teeth seeming more pointed than they had moments before. "I told you the truth. I'm here about my son. A woman named Kelly Burkhardt cut out his heart several years ago. I sent her a message to let her know I'd be here this evening. And that I expect to be here when her son comes home. Don't worry. I have no intention of harming you. Not at the moment. Not unless you force me. Although, as far as Mrs. Burkhardt is concerned. . . ." Mr. Gold put his tea down, carefully wiping his lips with the napkin Juliette had provided. Then, his hand flew up, catching the steel-headed arrow in midflight. He put it down on the table by his teacup and saucer, looking over Juliette's shoulder. "I believe she's arrived."

Juliette turned around and saw Kelly, Nick's mom, standing there, already dropping her crossbow and pulling out a knife. "Juliette, get out!" she said. "Find Nick!"

Mr. Gold sighed. He made a gesture with his hand, and Kelly went flying against the wall. "Really, Mrs. Burkhardt, what are you thinking? I was just enjoying a cup of tea with your charming, young friend. Must you make things so difficult?" Kelly struggled as though invisible chains were holding her back. "I suppose you must," Gold eyed her coldly. "After all, you murdered my son. Or tried to. Under the circumstances—" his smile turned feral, "—I'd expect the worst from me, too."

"If you want to kill me, do it," Kelly said. "But, let Juliette go. This has nothing to do with her."

Mr. Gold's eyes widened in innocent surprise. "Mrs. Burkhardt, whatever do you mean? I told you, Miss Silverton and I were enjoying a lovely cup of tea. Surely, you don't think I'd do anything to her? I'm a guest in her home! There are rules about these things." His eyes flashed dangerously. " _You_ , on the other hand, had a young boy come to you for help. He was lost and alone. And you murdered him."

"He was Wesen," Kelly grated.

"Oh, is that what you thought? And that made it all right, did it? Sorry to disappoint you, but my son was human. Completely human."

"Like you are?"

"Well, I _was_ human, once upon a time. But, really, you're one to talk. What did you do to your son, after all? Were you expecting him to become Wesen? Or did you think his Grimm blood would be stronger?"


	4. Making an Entrance

It was like one of those nightmares where, no matter how hard you try, you can't move, not fast enough. You run, you fight, you do everything you can, but disaster spins out at the speed of lightning while you struggle to move at a snail's pace.

That's what it was like the night Kelly's husband was murdered. She'd told Reed to get Gina out of there, knowing he wouldn't listen if she told him to save himself. Then, she realized the killers she was fighting weren't the only ones. The others were out there, waiting for whoever came out of the house.

She'd killed them—she'd killed nearly all of the them. Just not the ones she needed to kill.

And, then, looking out the window, she realized Reed and Gina weren't the only ones in danger.

Nick. _Nicky._ Her son. He shouldn't be there. She'd taken him to Marie. He was supposed to be safe. _He wasn't supposed to be there._

She saw them grab Nick. She saw one of them pull out a knife still dripping with blood. It was a huge, almost machete-like blade. He laughed as he lifted it over Nicky.

Schakals. They were all Schakals, child-eaters.

They must think she was dead. They wouldn't be bothering with Nick if they thought she was alive, if they knew they could still be attacked.

Reed. Gina. All their clever plans to get away, to leave a false trail that would send the killers after her while Reed and Gina got away, it had backfired. They'd gone after Reed and Gina first. They didn't even know she was there.

She ran to the window, not bothering with the door, leaping out. The killers looked up. They saw her. Good. It might buy her time. Enough time to reach them, enough time to save her son.

Then, the world exploded in fire, a vortex of cold, green flames between her and her goal. A young boy came tumbling out of it. Kelly didn't know what he was. Dämonfeuer? Excandesco? A Zauberbiest who'd learned to conjure fire?

It didn't matter. All that mattered was how the frigid blowback pushed her away, back towards the house. Time seemed to go stretch, going on for hours as she struggled to fight past it, to reach Nick. But, it could only have lasted seconds. When the fire vanished, she saw Nick lying on the ground, a terrible slash though his throat. She knew he was already dead. The blood was no longer pumping from the cut in his neck as it would if he were alive, though the still slick blood that had fallen on the street made a tiny rivulet, running downhill along the pavement. The Schakal who had killed Nick was lifting his blade higher, to take his head.

Kelly reached him first. The fight didn't last long. In a few moments, Kelly was left alone with the corpses and the Wesen boy who had summoned the flames—the boy who had cost her the precious seconds she'd needed to save Nick.

He was shivering, a look of terror on his face. He said something, "Papa," maybe. Had one of the Schakals been his father? Or was the boy just hoping his father would appear in time to save him? No chance of that.

Kelly was a Grimm, not a Hexenbiest. But, she knew more about the strange alchemy some Wesen practiced than most of her kind. She also knew some secrets even Wesen rarely knew. Long ago, when she and Marie had just come into their powers as Grimms, they'd witnessed one of the rare cases of a human becoming Wesen. It had driven the woman mad, murderously mad, and Marie and Kelly had been forced to kill her in the end. But, it had made the sisters curious, too. They'd tried to learn more in the years since.

She knew the story of the first Spinnetod, how the girl's father had changed her to save her life, how he had joined her with another creature to save her.

Kelly looked at the Wesen boy, the boy who had caused Nicky's death as surely as the assassin holding the blade, the boy who had no right to be alive when her son was dead.

Only seconds dead, Kelly thought. A handful of moments. If she could somehow close up Nicky's wound, put the blood back into him, and command his heart to start beating again, he would be all right—she _knew_ he would be all right. If she acted quickly. If she acted _now._

She remembered what she'd read. She remembered the bits and pieces she and Marie had pieced together about how someone might do the same thing. Kelly grabbed the boy and dragged him to Nicky's side, raising the blade.

X

The family name of Baelfire's foster sister had amused Gold when he'd learned it. Silverton and Gold. He had half expected to sense some kind of magic around her, some link to silver or the night. But, in that sense, Miss Silverton was quite ordinary. No arcane fire sparked inside her. In other ways, in her intelligence and the kindness she showed a chance-met stranger, he already thought she was quite remarkable. He gave his silent approval to this almost-kinswoman.

He was determined not to harm her, not _really_ harm her. It might become necessary to restrain her at some point if she decided to jump in and save Mrs. Burkhardt, though he hoped not. Gold had already appropriated the small gun Miss Silverton kept for security reasons—things could get awkward if she tried to shoot him while his attention needed to be elsewhere. Of course, there was quite a collection of knives in the kitchen, not to mention boiling water for the tea and other things he was sure she could try to turn into a weapon. Ah, well, he would just have to deal with matters as they unfolded.

But, for the moment, Gold was not Miss Silverton's main concern. She was staring at Mrs. Burkhardt. "Kelly, you—you killed a _kid?_ "

"He was with the people who killed Nick's father," Mrs. Burkhardt grated, still pinned to the wall. "He stopped me from getting to Nick in time."

Gold kept his face calm but, inside, he was smirking at Mrs. Burkhardt's slip. She hadn't even noticed what she'd admitted. Gold was keeping her off-balance. But, Miss Silverton caught it.

"In time? What do you mean?"

"Juliette—" Mrs. Burkhardt began, then clamped her mouth closed. Sensible. She didn't have a good lie handy, and the truth would not serve her.

But, it would serve him. "In time to save him," Gold told her. "In time to keep her son from being killed." Slowly, he let Mrs. Burkhardt slide down the wall to the floor. Oh, he was playing to his audience, trying not to look like the villain—or not _too much_ like the villain. He knew his limits, after all. "I can . . . sympathize." His lip curled as he fought back his anger over what had happened that night. Given the same choice to save his own son. . . . Rumplestiltskin had never killed a child. Nor left one to die. But, he could sympathize. A little. "I know what it is to be desperate to save a child. I know what it can drive you to. If you hadn't done your best to murder my son, I might even forgive you." Gold paused, wondering if she would make the mistake of giving further justifications for the unjustifiable, but it seemed Mrs. Burkhardt was guarding her tongue again.

"My son wasn't with the assassins," Gold said. "He was just the victim of very bad timing." He grimaced. "Call it fate, if you will." _Or a meddling fairy._ After all, if things had worked out the way Reul Ghorm had hoped, it might have been Rumplestiltskin—powerless and crippled without the precautions he'd taken leaving Storybrooke—meeting his destiny at the wrong end of Mrs. Burkhardt's blade. "What is it one of your poets said? We come to this world trailing clouds of glory. My son's entrance was just a bit more literal than the usual. If you had stopped to think, you might have noticed that."

"I had to," Mrs. Burkhardt said. She looked at Miss Silverton. "Juliette, I had to. They'd murdered Nick. I could save him. I had to do it."

"Mom?"

Mrs. Burkhardt and Miss Silverton both turned. The blood drained from Mrs. Burkhardt's face.

Nick Burkhardt—Baelfire—was looking at all of them, his face nearly as pale as his mother's. "Mom, what did you do to him? What did you do to _me?_


	5. Remembrance

Marie looked in on her nephew. He sat curled up on the bed she'd given him, staring at nothing.

She'd seen this before. The horror of a Wesen attack was hard enough for most people, knowing that the reality they'd believed in, the solid planks of what the world should be that formed the bridge getting them from day to day, had dissolved into smoke and mirrors as they tumbled into the abyss. Most people closed down, one way or another. They rewrote what they'd seen, reshaping what they'd experienced into something they could live with.

Marie had learned the hard way never to interfere with that. She'd seen what could happen when humans broke under the burden of too much knowledge. It was better to get out of the way and let them heal however they could, that's what she told herself. At most, she could only help them along in forgetting what they'd seen.

She looked down guiltily at the mug she was holding. She'd never expected to have to tell herself that about her own nephew.

Her father had started teaching her when she was ten, not knowing if she'd develop the powers he had. Ten was a malleable age, so he'd said. A ten year old could absorb shocks that would destroy and adult. Besides, it wasn't shocking when what you were really being taught was about the world she was already living in, things she'd seen but just hadn't had the words—and she'd seen a lot. Dad had been awful at hiding it. All his lessons did was fill in the details.

A little like getting "the talk," she supposed. It wasn't like most kids didn't know there was _something_ going on the adults weren't telling them. It was just that the Grimm talk had less embarrassment and a whole lot more gore.

Or it did if the kids could deal with it. Nick wasn't dealing. Nick had also seen his father die and nearly been killed himself, so Kelly said. She'd made Marie promise— _promise—_ not to tell Nick the truth. As far as they were concerned, he'd been here all evening. He didn't know anything about Wesen or that his father had been murdered, not died in an accident.

Marie looked at the mug again, not sure if this was the right thing. When Kelly had burst in, covered with blood and burns, more than half-mad herself with grief and battle-frenzy, Marie had just wanted to calm her down and check Nick for injuries. He'd been unconscious, though Marie couldn't see any obvious wounds. Kelly had sworn none of the Wesen had hurt him. He'd just been overwhelmed by what he'd seen.

So, Marie was to tell him he hadn't seen it.

Once Kelly had left and everything began to settle in, Marie began to regret her promise. It wasn't just that Nick was family, he was the son of a Grimm and might someday be one himself. And Grimms could handle it.

Even if they couldn't, this wasn't a little lie—passing off a Blutbad with bodies in the basement as just a serial killer when that was what everyone wanted to believe anyway—this was telling her own flesh and blood that his father hadn't died the way he'd _seen_ him die. Then, tell him he hadn't seen it. She didn't think she could do it.

Or that's what she'd thought till she saw Nick curled up on the bed, staring at nothing.

Being a Grimm meant making the hard decisions when no one else could. Because, there was no one else who could do it for them.

She went in and sat down next to him. "Nick," she said. "Nicky, you've had a nightmare. I—I told you what happened to your parents, and you had a nightmare about it. It's OK. It's not real. . . ."

X

 _Baelfire._

The name echoed in his mind.

 _Nicky, your parents died,_

Papa came home and told him what had happened to Mama, about the pirates who had killed her.

He remembered Papa, beaten by soldiers and lying by the side of the road.

Papa holding onto him as he dangled over darkness and green fire, Papa letting go. . . .

 _There was a car accident. A fire. Your parents died._

He knew the woman. She was Aunt Marie, his mother's sister ( _Mama hadn't had any sisters_ ). She was looking after him while his father and mother were away ( _Mama was already dead_ ).

There'd been an accident. The car had burst into flames. His parents had been killed.

 _Papa laughed when soldiers tried to kill him, catching their blades in his hand. Papa walked through a burning castle to save him. How could he die in a burning car?_

 _He remembered green flames and darkness closing around him, cutting off the sight of Papa._

Nicky, Aunt Marie said, your parents died.

The rest was a nightmare. Not real.

 _Baelfire._

He recognized everything in the room Aunt Marie had given him. He had seen it all before. He recognized the bedspread and the braided rug on the floor ( _not woven, not like anything Papa would have made_ ). Step outside this room, he knew exactly how many steps to the bathroom. He knew where the other doors were and what lay behind them. There was a narrow stairway with faded carpet. Downstairs, he knew where the kitchen was and where Aunt Marie kept a hidden stash of candy. He knew what photos hung in the living room and could name the people in them.

Mom.

Dad.

Nicky.

He'd been to the bathroom once. He'd looked in the mirror and seen the face he did and didn't know, pushing hair that wasn't curly out of the way to stare into eyes that were the wrong color.

A knife had flashed. The woman whose face was one of the two he saw when he thought of _mother_ killed him/hadn't killed him/saved him/transformed him.

 _A feeling like plunging into the sea in winter, the waves empty and cold. They crashed against him, beating his bones to dust, pulling him down and choking him in memories._

 _Pictures flashed through his mind. They were flat and hollow. He felt nothing except drowning confusion as each burst into his thoughts, only to be pushed aside by another, like a horde of village children rushing to throw their straw dolls on the bonfire at harvest time._

 _Nothing. But, there were echoes, memories of the feelings he_ should _be having. He saw them, like faded photographs from someone else's life._

 _Photographs. There were no such things as photographs. He'd never seen such a thing. Pictures were drawn by hand, like the rough sketches he made with black ash from the fire, tracing on stones._

 _He'd always known about photographs. He remembered standing and having his picture taken, family photos, school picture day._

He was the boy Aunt Mari called Nicky. He was kid his friends called Nick. Everything he saw, everything he felt said he was Nick. He looked at his hands and saw none of the calluses that came from farm work and spinning. He hadn't dared look at his chest but there was—he was _sure_ there was no scar. All he felt was the memory of where his mother had brought the knife down on him, the same mother Aunt Marie said was dead.

Aunt Marie came into the room. She looked worried. She held a mug in her hand. Nick could see faint whisps of steam rising from it. She put her arm around him and told him it had all been a nightmare.

Except the part about his parents being dead. Mom. Dad.

 _Papa._

"Nicky, I need you to drink this."

Nick wrinkled his nose. It smelled awful. He thought of his Papa's stories of Ogres and the stench of the battlefield.

 _There's no such thing as Ogres. Or battlefields. Or Papa._

"What is it?"

"Medicine," Aunt Marie said.

He sniffed at it. "What's in it?"

Marie hesitated, then smiled. "You want the truth? Tears from a _Lethevurm_ and dust from an _Aviesperan_ 's heart, with a few herbs mixed in to give it bite."

She was smiling as if it were a joke ( _Not serious. Just a quip_ ). Nick seemed certain that's all it was, the kind of joke Aunt Marie was always making. Baelfire wasn't so sure.

 _Lethevurm._ Lethe was the river of forgetfulness, so Papa had said. Nick knew that _vurm_ was another word for worm or dragon. It was what the Elf King called Smaug in the cartoon of _The Hobbit_ (Baelfire's mind swam with images that were like Morraine's stories of the front before Papa came and ended the war as he tried to remember what _The Hobbit_ was). The book had been better.

 _If I drink this, I'll forget._

Forget what? Nick? Bae?

"Please, Nicky," Aunt Marie said. "Drink it down. I promise, you'll feel better."

X

There were more strange things in what Marie's father had left her than she could ever count. Most of them killed. The little bottle tucked away in an oak box was different. It had been given to dad by a Fuchsbau he'd helped once (Dad never said how, just that it was a long story). It would help, he'd said, with people—normal people—who'd seen too much. The things that didn't fit the world they knew would start to fade and feel like a dream. Marie had never tried it, but she thought about what Kelly had told her had happened and about the blank, staring look in her nephew's eyes.

"Is it magic?" he asked.

Magic. All right. It made sense for Nick to ask that. Most people thought about magic when they encountered shapechanging monsters. That was a perfectly normal, healthy, _sane_ question for Nick to be asking. Or that's what she told herself despite the way Nick was staring at the cup in her hand.

"All magic has a price," he said. "Always."

The hair stood up on the back of Marie's neck. "Who told you that?" It wasn't something a Wesen would say, not even a Hexenbeist. She forced herself to smile. "Is that from a movie?"

Nick's expression didn't change. "It's true, isn't it?"

Kelly had run to give Nick his best chance at survival. Marie could see choices just as hard in her own future if she was going to keep him safe. All of it, just part of the price of being a Grimm. "Yes, it's true. Drink this, Nicky."

He took the cup from her and, slowly, drained it. For the first time since she came into the room, he looked at her, watching as if she were his executioner. When he was done, he put the cup down.

Nick yawned as the potion took effect. "Will I forget Papa?" he asked.

He'd understood what the potion would do and drunk it anyway. Marie frowned. _Papa._ She didn't remember Nick ever calling his father that. "Of course not. How could you forget your father?"

Nick's eyes began to droop but he leaned back against the wall to keep himself propped up. "Not Dad. He's—he's dead. I understand that." He yawned again, slumping as he lost the fight to stay awake, his eyes closing.

"Aunt Marie," Nick whispered, struggling to stay awake just a bit longer. "Papa will come for me." Despite only being half-awake, he sounded dead certain. "Tell me when he gets here. Promise?"

"I promise," Marie said, not sure what she was agreeing to.

Not that it mattered. She had some calls to make and things to arrange, but she and Nick would be out of here by morning. Let whoever was looking for him try and find them, then.


	6. Judgment

Three hundred years.

For three hundred years, Rumplestiltskin had worked towards this moment. He looked in Nick Burkhardt's eyes, searching for a glimmer of the boy he had once known, hoping he would remember, hoping against hope he would forgive him for all the mistakes he'd made, knowing that was too much to ask for.

Ice-blue eyes met his. Rumplestiltskin read shock and disbelief in them. This was too much, he thought. Despite everything he'd done to try and lead to this moment, what he was asking of Nick—of Bae—was too much.

"Papa?"


	7. Blood and Souls

Bae had let Rumplestiltskin hold him while he wept. The old wizard had tried not to. Men were awkward in this world about tears (truth be told, the Enchanted Forest didn't shower them with compliments either). What must Bae think of him, a grown man doing his best not to sob like a child and holding onto his son as though he might slip away forever if he let go? But, it had been three hundred years since he'd held his son—three hundred _years._

But, he let him go in the end, trying to ready himself to answer the questions he knew must be coming but still not quite sure what to say beyond, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," words he's already said enough to last a lifetime.

"It's all right, Papa," Bae said. "It's all right."

Which was the moment Miss Swan burst in, brandishing a watch. "Gold! What do you think you're—"

She stopped dead, staring at Bae. "Oh, no. Not _you._ "

X

Juliette watched as Gold, the man who said he was Nick's dad, quietly faded into a corner as the chaos unfolded. There was yelling and incoherent explanations, followed by more yelling. Kelly, who must feel she had something to prove in the good mother department, came in on Nick's side. Monroe and Rosalie, usually good sources of common sense when the Wesen world was getting too overwhelming, just made things more confusing.

"Dude," Monroe said. " _You_ had my Uncle Einar's watch?"

Nick could cope with this one himself, Juliette decided. She joined Gold out of the line of fire. "So, are you really Nick's father?"

He looked at her warily, as though Juliette were a snake that might strike at any moment and not as if he could throw her through a wall as easily as he'd thrown Kelly. He nodded cautiously. "Yes."

"Kelly seems to think otherwise."

Gold gave a slightly exasperated sigh. "Mrs. Burkhardt used a cobbled together spell with no understanding of what she was doing." Something in his tone reminded Juliette of some of her teachers back in college when they were trying to explain something they considered obvious. "Nick—the real Nick—was dead, killed by the same men who slaughtered her husband. She tried to merge them, to use Bae's life to revive her son. But, it was too late. Instead, she merged them. Bae had Nick's appearance and memories. Just not his soul."

What made Nick Nick? Juliette wondered. A person was more than just the sum total of memories and the life they'd lived. If not, she would have ceased to be Juliette when, months ago, that poison Adalind had slipped her had begun to erase her mind and memories. Nick had believed in her—had believed the person he knew, Juliette, was still there—even if she hadn't been able to remember him.

She looked at Kelly, who would fight monsters to the death to save people she didn't know but who would also just as soon have killed Monroe and Rosalie when she first met them. Nick, on the other hand, would risk his life for a Wesen as soon as he would a human's. When young Wesen were driven mad and attacking people all over town over Christmas—including Juliette and Rosalie—his only thought was to cure them and send them home safe to their parents.

Was that because Kelly wasn't his real mother? Or just because he had grown up differently than she had and learned what it meant to be Wesen from people like Monroe and Rosalie?

"That's not how she sees it," Juliette said.

There was a long silence. Gold watched Kelly with a cold, calculating eye, a predator sizing up his prey. Then, he shrugged and looked away. "She's welcome to believe whatever she wants. Bae—Nick thinks of her as his mother. So long as she isn't his enemy, she doesn't have to be mine."

"You said she tried to kill Ba—Ni—" What was she supposed to call the boy Kelly had tried to sacrifice? If he wasn't Nick, who was he? "—your son."

He shrugged again, looking at Nick as if he were a miracle, as if Gold were looking at the rising sun after years of living in darkness—and, she thought, as if he were afraid of having this miracle snatched from his hands and being thrown back into whatever pit he'd escaped. "But, she didn't. She protected him. She's fought and bled to keep him safe. Maybe she didn't mean to, but it's what she did. Why convince her that was the wrong thing to do? Besides-" he said with a glint of dark, painful humor, "—a boy doesn't forgive the man who killed his mother."

Juliette didn't know why she felt the need to press this—Gold was dangerous, she was sure of that—but she needed to understand. "But, Nick still sees her as his mother."

"It's no matter," he said. "So long as he knows he's my son."

That was when Henry came up to them. Like Juliette, he seemed to have had enough of the drama. A family trait, Juliette thought, not that they were family. Not blood family. Should she tell him to call her Aunt Juliette? Things might get ugly if he tried to call her Julie.

"So, you're my grandfather?" the boy asked Gold.

The pain in the man's eyes vanished and he smiled warmly at the boy. Juliette wondered if Gold were sincerely glad to be talking to his grandson or if he were just very good at redonning his mask. "Yes, Henry, I am."

"How long have you known?"

"Ah. That. The clues began to pile up not long after your mother came to Storybrooke. I knew for a fact before we came to Portland."

"Oh. You used magic?"

"No, genetic testing. Besides, you have my eyes."

Brown eyes. Juliette knew the basics of genetics. Two blue-eyed people rarely had a brown-eyed son. Unless one of the blue-eyed people had once been a brown-eyed person before being magically crammed into a blue-eyed body. Or whatever it was Kelly had done. "I should have told you sooner but I wasn't sure you'd believe me."

Henry gave Gold a shrewd look that showed their blood connection better than any eye color. "Is that the only reason?"

Gold actually looked sheepish. "Well, if Bae hadn't—hadn't wanted to speak to me, I supposed you and your mother would arrive in time to—to give him a reason. To listen. To come to Storybrooke. Something."

Henry nodded, satisfied. 'What about this?" he said, indicating the ongoing chaos in front of them. "Isn't it time you did something?"

"Henry. . . ." Gold trailed off, looking uncertainly at Nick.

Juliette thought she understood. The moment things calmed down, Gold would have to talk to Nick again. Juliette hadn't grasped more than the roughest outline of how the boy he called Baelfire had wound up on a street in New York with dead bodies and Wesen assassins, but she'd seen his fear and his guilt-wracked grief when he talked to Nick. Instead of rushing over the moment he found out Nick was his son, he'd spent weeks putting together a complicated plan that involved everything from saving Monroe's life to buying the house next door so his girlfriend's cat could get stuck in Juliette's tree all so Nick wouldn't reject him without a hearing.

"Don't be afraid," Juliette said. "Nick isn't going to run away or throw you out. That's not who he is." Not in his soul, whatever souls might be. If, as Gold claimed, he really had seen truly into Nick's, he would know that.

Gold looked at Juliette, and she could see all the fear inside him, fear of all the ways this could go wrong. Then, he nodded curtly, his features becoming calm as a mask. Gold raised his voice, cutting through all the noise in the room. "That's quite enough," he said. "If you would all settle down and talk in a _civilized_ manner, I believe we have some things to discuss."

The End

(For now)


End file.
